Let me tell you a story about coming from the dead.
But first, some context. I was in Lake Sebu in South Cotabato, Philippines with my dad who creates documentaries, and has spent decades moving through the Philippines deliberately, sometimes through regions that alarm disciples of travel advisories. (For some projects, he has been accompanied by armed forces.)
The work is guided by a deeply personal obsession with cultural preservation.
We were there to photograph cultural bearers — National Living Treasures officially recognized for keeping ancestral practices alive. We successfully photographed three.
And then he went looking for someone else.
Dad had asked after a chanter named Ye Gas.
He had seen her perform 15 years ago, and she was known in the community as the chanter. Beyond her voice, spirit moved through her, and words and melody emerged in real time. Songs weren’t actually rehearsed, but created on the spot.
The day before, I had a vision. I don’t know what else to call it. A micro-dream? Wishful thinking of what I wanted to capture?
I saw a scene with a T’boli woman and a horse, on a mountain.
We were told Ye Gas was up in the mountain.
The van could only take us so far, so from there, we walked, following the woman who introduced herself as Ye Gas’ cousin, and her neighbor.
Ye Gas was shy when she greeted us; surprised and unsure why anyone had sought her out. Dad told her he had seen her years ago, and remembered her voice.
Said that we were in town photographing cultural bearers, and he had wanted to find her, too.
She agreed to be photographed and changed into her T’boli attire, and something shifted.
We stepped outside; the horse lingered nearby. Her posture lifted and her eyes sharpened, like watching someone remember themselves in real time.
And I took the photograph I had already seen in my mind the day before.
She sang for us and told us her story. Our guide told us she had never opened up like this before.
She said that when people had come looking for her, they were told that she was dead. That word spread and visitors stopped coming. That her voice, her identity, her place in the story had quietly slipped away.
We just listened
Before we left, she reached into her belongings and pressed a gift into my hands. A pair of earrings. I was told they were made from horse tail. The vision of the images her gift closed their own circle.
Paying attention (to nudges, daydreams, hunches) allows things to align. And perhaps one of the greatest justices is to be witnessed accurately while you are still alive.
Ye Gas is still alive. And her voice still moves through the mountain.